


The Year of the Cat

by escspace



Series: Still Life [2]
Category: Noblesse (Manhwa)
Genre: Denial, Edging, Gen, Light Smut, M/M, Slice of Life, Vaguely educational, Vietnam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26036920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escspace/pseuds/escspace
Summary: 1999, Vietnam. It is Tết in Saigon.
Relationships: Frankenstein/Ragar Kertia, Frankenstein/Ragar Kertia/Cadis Etrama Di Raizel
Series: Still Life [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889944
Comments: 19
Kudos: 17
Collections: Desire for the Decades, The Modern Kertia Expansion Pack: Keeping Up with the Kertias





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Accompanying artwork can be viewed in "Souls in Saigon" (part 1 of this series).
> 
> There're some Vietnamese words used in this fic. Further explanations will be in the numerized footnotes.
> 
> A note on pronunciation: In Vietnamese, _Dd_ is pronounced like the letter Y and _Đđ_ is pronounced like the letter D.

Despite the humid smother of heat that clings to the neck and brow of anyone susceptible, the air conditioning keeps their humble apartment chilled and crisp. Any coldness between them has long been forgotten, however, replaced instead with the craving, companionable warmth of both well worn affection and mild violence. The long, black tunic of Ragar's _áo dài_ has been shoved up towards his chest, fine, airy fabric crumpled between their bodies. His hands are immobolized to either side of him, wrists pressed down into the blankets by Frankenstein's toned arms, the muscles of his friend's shoulders shifting and contoured under the dim, orange light.

Ragar tilts his head back, eyes fluttering closed indulgently when he feels Frankenstein's teeth against his bare neck, his breath catching. Frankenstein does not break skin—he never has, not like this, when they are intimate—but even just this is enough to make Ragar shudder and squirm. Ragar knows that he likes it far too much.

The low bed creaks under their motions.

In the godforsaken hours of the early, early morning, outside rumbles with the thunder of hurried footsteps.

"Hey, hey! Wait for me, you bastard!" a woman exclaims

"Happy New Year!" a man bellows.

Laughter tumbles down the street and past the quiet gates of closely spaced houses.

"Oh?" Frankenstein breathes against Ragar's ear. "What year is it?" he whispers, momentarily and mildy curious.

Ragar blinks, face still stained with a flush. He gazes up at the slowly turning ceiling fan, more decorative than functional. It turns and turns. Then, he recalls, "The year of the cat."1

"Well then..." Frankenstein perks up and looks down at him, the blue shimmer of his eyes alluring and playful. A corner of his lip tips upwards with friendly cunning. _"Chúc Mừng Năm Mới," Happy New Year,_ he says.

Ragar lowers his head, eyes slipping closed once again. _"Chúc Mừng Năm Mới,"_ he murmurs.

In the quaint Saigon bedroom, they ring in the Lunar New Year with their own brand of fireworks. _Tết_ begins.

* * *

In the morning, by the time they arrive, the _Xóm Chiếu_ Market is already bustling, customers buying and shopkeeps selling like it is their lifeblood. Shells of fresh, shiny clams clack against each other as an elderly woman pours the live seafood into a plastic bucket of cold, shallow water. Fish that were only minutes from their prior home in the sea stare blindly with wide, glassy eyes at the thrum of potential customers and cooks passing by and conversing. The perimeter of the market square boasts all flavors of street food from the comfort of _súp cua_ —crab soup featuring century egg and pork brain—to spiced and crispy rice paper. Pyramids of fruits—durian, longan, rambutan, and mangosteen among others—saturated and succulent, line the streets.

Bright colors and variegated aromas entice locals through the enveloping hum drum of the market, a kaleidoscopic menagerie of everyday human life. Ragar’s eyes are always wide and curious in such places, gaze drifting around to take in all of the activity that at times borders on overwhelming. He has yet to tire of such integrally human expeditions, a far cry from what he remembers of Lukedonian life, now centuries distant from him and his companion.

Frankenstein peers at the stalls of the market with more discerning scrutiny, sorting what is sweet enough, fresh enough, and bright enough from what is not. He is as critical as he is when conducting any lab work; Ragar’s eyes fall on his friend fondly.

It never takes long for Frankenstein to notice when he is being watched. _“Mày muốn gì?” Do you want something?_ Frankenstein says to him.2

"Only your company," Ragar replies.

Frankenstein pauses to scoff at Ragar with an expression both amused and taken aback. Unable to wipe the wry smile from his face, he curtly turns back to the elderly man and hands him a few bills in exchange for a bundle of water spinach that Frankenstein places in his woven basket. “We’ll pick up the meat and seafood next,” he tells Ragar.

The man glances at them curiously from under the shadow of his conical rice hat as they depart to make their way towards the center of the market building.

Despite the austere gray appearance of the exterior, deeper inside, the architecture takes on a cathedral-like appearance, a haven for food. Shafts of sunlight cascade through the space, illuminating fresh goods like halos. Center stage are the meats and seafood including even the luxury of beef.

"These are gorgeous." At one of the many stalls, a lady smiles down at a bin of frogs, still kicking even with their hind legs tied. "I’d like a kilogram, ma'am."

The wrinkled hand of a shopkeep swiftly picks the plumpest frog; a pair of large kitchen scissors is poised in her other hand. In quick succession, several frogs are smoothly killed, their legs snipped off with clockwork dexterity, ingrained in muscle memory by years of practice.

With a plastic bag filled with only the freshest, the young lady flutters away, seeking her next fine catch for dinner.

Frankenstein soon amasses a small collection of squids, crabs, and cuts of pork. Their basket of treasures full, the two of them slip from the shade of the building and hop onto the sun-warmed seat of their Vespa motorbike. Its pastel blue body glints in the light, bold and bright even when drifting through the dust of the streets and the hot exhaust of traffic.

Ragar navigates the busy streets of Saigon with the confidence of any local, having learned the ways of the city well throughout their twelve years in Vietnam, even if staggering modernization in the years following the country’s major economic reforms has transformed the city from a stagnant, hopeless sort of place into something entirely electrifying.3 He finds himself frequently baffled at the speed and ceaselessness of human change, its scale and diversity, beautiful, terrible, and powerful. He has lived the equivalent of many lives in many different places, and he drives on as relentlessly as ever into the future, one life among the countless others that surround him. Ragar is small and insignificant within whatever great machinations turn the Earth; such a thing does not bother him. One of many and happy to be.

Motorbikes swarm the streets, the rumble of engines and blare of horns coalescing into a constant industrial rumble. He feels the heat of exhaust graze his legs and hears snippets of conversation from neighboring bikes, voices raised from speaking over the noise of traffic and through colorful cloth face masks that shield drivers and passengers from the dust.

“Hey, let’s go out for a drink tonight! We’ll invite that guy Bo too,” a man shouts next to his friend’s ear, leaning forward on the bike to make sure the driver hears him.

“What? That son of a bitch?”

“Hey, he’s not that bad! Hahaha!”

The men make a turn into a narrow avenue, skirting momentarily onto the uneven, cracked sidewalk, and their conversation is quickly drowned out into the distance.

Ragar feels the warm press of Frankenstein’s chest to his back as his friend leans forward to say something near his ear. “Do you have work tonight?”

He shakes his head gently. “No. The bar will be closed.”

Frankenstein leans back, clutching the basket of produce close to his side. “Good.” There is a smile in voice.

“Do you have something in mind?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me what it is?”

“No.”

Ragar’s sigh is far too quiet to be heard above the sounds of the street. He tugs uselessly at his mask as their apartment building comes into view, rising above the line of the glimmering river.

* * *

Dinner passes pleasantly and quietly, the ingredients they had purchased from the market being put to good use. After the rather meditative task of washing the dishes, Ragar slides open their balcony door and steps outside to watch the peachy-orange sun set upon the city. As the sky darkens, the streets flicker to life. Even from this distance, he can see the sparkle of countless lights strung along sidewalks, trees, telephone poles, shops, and houses, all in celebration of the new year. The sounds of motorbike engines and horns are distant but constant, like the flow of blood through Saigon’s veins.

Under his tunic, Ragar reaches for a packet of _Khánh Hội_ cigarettes and withdraws one to place between his lips as he pulls his mask down. He keeps a cheap plastic lighter in the same pocket.

White smoke glazes his vision of the city as it rises hypnotically into the air and disappears towards the sky.

“You’ve picked up quite a habit, haven’t you?” Frankenstein smirks as he steps out onto the balcony as well.

Ragar holds his cigarette between two fingers as he looks at the dark silhouettes of building rooftops. “You’ve been a very thorough teacher.” Another puff of smoke rises into the air.

Frankenstein huffs wryly. “Do you even experience any effects or is it purely to satisfy your own vanity?”

At this, Ragar glances at the gray ash flecking off the end. He taps his cigarette, and it falls onto the railing he leans on before swiftly being brushed away. “It is...something to think upon, something to practice, something to occupy myself with, but I do not deny that my vanity may persuade me.” A considerate drag of his cigarette; smoke, again. “Though it is no more persuasive than yours.” Ragar turns to Frankenstein, looking at him knowingly and expectantly, in a way that speaks of eons of friendship in mere seconds. He once more takes out his small cardboard box and holds it open towards Frankenstein.

Frankenstein’s tilted smile and raised eyebrows do enough to convey both his amusement and mock offense. “Store bought? These really don’t do anything for you then.” He takes one offering. “Or for me for that matter.” He places the smoke between his lips.

Without missing a beat, Ragar is cupping his left hand around the end of Frankenstein’s cigarette and flicking the flame of the lighter to life with his right. The yellow-orange fire illuminates their faces in interesting ways against the cool dim of the darkening evening. Ragar’s posture is attentive, leaning in just slightly closer than entirely necessary, the cigarette between Frankenstein’s lips becoming like the sun of their world as it begins to burn.

Frankenstein takes a long, slow drag as Ragar straightens and tucks away the lighter.

“Will you tell me now, what your plans are?” Ragar asks.

The silence of his companion's smoke is answer enough. They stare at the sky; they stare at the city, celebrations no doubt taking place on those eclectic streets and behind those bright windows.

Then, finally, “Let’s go for a ride,” Frankenstein says.

* * *

  
Strings of twinkling lights and glowing lanterns have been strung above their heads, arching over the streets like canopies of stars plucked straight from the sky. Vendors sell food and flowers on the side of the road. People are dressed in their best, the long panels of the women's _áo dài_ tunics fluttering and trailing behind them. Electric glows of neon signs illuminate the jaunty faces of passers by.

Ragar shifts forward in his seat on the motorbike as he stares at Frankenstein's back, his friend focused on the road ahead of them which is no longer so congested at this hour. He tips further forward until he is resting his head against Frankenstein's shoulder, cheek touching his navy striped jacket. Ragar's face is turned to the side to watch the streets that pass them while his hands come to wrap warmly around Frankenstein's waist and settle on his lap.

Pressed together like this, he wonders if he might phase through his body and sink right into Frankenstein's very soul. If only to ease that haunting, aching loneliness that he knows plagues his friend every waking and perhaps sleeping moment that they are without Sir Raizel. But for now, their silence is companionable. Despite all the lively, colorful sights that line the streets and decorate the sidewalks, Ragar closes his eyes in some imitation of sleep. He takes in the sounds of the city like a lullaby, the wind teasing his hair and soothing him though the close company of his friends has already relaxed him.

"Hey, don't fall off," Frankenstein calls to him.

"I know," Ragar murmurs.

When he next opens his eyes, they are passing by the Notre Dame Cathedral of Saigon, its orange-red facade brightened by streetlights against the dark sky. Its two towers point proudly at the heavy clouds beginning to roll over the city.

Distantly, Ragar hears the deep, rhythmic beating of drums. As their bike approaches the sprawling plaza at the center of the tourist district, he lifts his head and spots a crowd of people. The noise they make is festive. Then, above their heads emerges the fiery red and bright gold of a lion's costume. It tilts side to side, jingling its decorative bells and blinking its hyptnotic eyes. "I would like to watch the lion dance," he tells Frankenstein.

"All right." Their Vespa drifts over to the side of the road. Frankenstein kicks down the stand to park their bike, and they hop off to leisurely join the crowd of gleeful watchers.

Ragar's height allows him to watch over the heads of many of the others.

There are three lions: black, yellow, and red. They dip low as they bow to each other. Then they rise in succession onto their hind legs, holding their heads high. They tower above the crowd. They leap, bound, and dance, fur swaying, bells ringing, and eyes glimmering. The click and beat of the drum sink into Ragar's chest. He watches with childlike wonder, enthralled with the energy of the lions. The black and red ones circle and dance with each other, synchronized like clockwork with the help of the powerful drummer. The yellow one, however, bounds along the perimeter, brushing against the crowd.

A young girl steps forward and enthusiastically waves her arms; in her small fist are crumpled bills. The lion takes notice and dramatically shudders and sways, chimes ringing. It approaches with wide, methodical steps, bows low before the girl, and swings open its large mouth. The girl's wide grin rivals that of the lion's as she feeds it the money her mother had granted her.

Without much thought, Ragar slips deeper into the crowd until he emerges to stand before the lion. He stares up at its beguiling concentric eyes. It darts past him, body of wood, fabric, and fur like a painted blur.

The dance at the center reaches a climax. Black and red lift their heads high and circle back to the ground again and again as the drumming becomes reminsicent of the thunder of galloping horses. The yellow one joins the center, and it is the black lion's turn to beckon the crowd and their generosity.

Ragar quickly pulls out his wallet and retrieves a charitable number of notes. A little stiffly, he extends his hand, hoping to catch the creature's eyes, and is rewarded when it takes notice. The lion's dark form towers above him, casting him in shadow. It tilts its head as if curious and presses its face close to his hand, inspecting carefully, like it is cautious. It prowls around him. Then, finally, it bows. Ragar eagerly places the notes into the lion's mouth. For a brief moment, he catches a glimpse of one of the dancers inside, but the lion gallops away before he can make out any features. The people beside him clap and cheer

Ragar pulls shyly at his mask, feeling almost embarrassingly bubbly. It is then that he notices a little boy behind him struggling to see past his legs. He quickly concedes his spot to the child and returns to Frankenstein's side at the edge of the crowd.

Frankenstein smiles that clever smile. "Did you have fun?"

Ragar's fingers absently fly to his mask. "I did."

"Hm." Looking towards the sky, Frankenstein says, "It looks like it'll rain. There's a place I'd like to visit with you before it does."

Ragar nods.

With storm clouds chasing them, they again slip onto the streets of the city. Their bike purrs into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1In the Vietnamese zodiac, the fourth animal is the cat instead of the hare or rabbit. Years of the cat include: 1975 (the Fall of Saigon and the end of the Vietnam War), 1987 (one year after the beginning of the Đổi Mới economic reforms), and 1999 (the year in which this fic takes place).
> 
> 2Mày is a rude form of address, used when someone wants to pick a fight with someone else. However, it is also used among very close, familiar friends.
> 
> 3Đổi Mới is a series of economic and governmental reforms starting in 1986 when Vietnam, after the Vietnam War, had fallen into a period of immense poverty and violence in the late 70s to 80s, which resulted in many fleeing the country and leaving Saigon (renamed Ho Chi Minh City) a husk of its former self. Đổi Mới is considered responsible for a rapid modernization, economic growth, and improved standard of living that took place throughout the late 80s to early 2000s.


	2. Chapter 2

People who are also celebrating the new year bustle about under the arching entrance gate of the Buddhist temple. The white smoke of spiral incense hung from the ceiling billows from between two red pillars inscribed with Chinese. The pagoda's dull red facade is accented with the cursive of iron and bronze work. Among the visitors, monks dressed in orange-yellow robes drift quietly, their steps careful in their soft shoes.

In front of them, Ragar watches a mother hand her daughter two incense sticks, a thin trail of smoke following the movements. “Wish for good health,” the woman implores tenderly.

The girl nods and takes her spot in the center before the large bronze pot that boasts a collection of the incense and wishes of visitors before them. She holds her incense with both hands, raising her fingers up to her forehead and tilting her flushed, youthful face downwards. She scrunches her eyes shut tight, and the effort of her innocent mental broadcasting is clear in the creases that form in between her brows. The girl wishes and prays with all of the will that her small self can muster, as though she can cause a shift in the heavens with her very will.

For a moment, it strikes Ragar. Her inner fervent, naive desires are loud and clear to him, signals lining up with his own psychic attunement. _Please let me see Papa again,_ she silently prays.

Ragar averts his gaze.

“It seems unlike you to visit such places of spiritual practice,” he says to Frankenstein.

“Is that so?” He smiles easily and nods towards the temple building ahead that sits above sprawling stone steps that flank either side of a gleaming white statue. The statue’s benevolent face looks ahead above them all, perpetually at peace, their carved robes of stone forever still and silent. The figure carries a slim bottle that bears a single lotus stem.

Ragar immediately recognizes the statue as being one of the deity _Quán Thế Âm_ as he recalls the flicker of the television screen that has kept him company during warm late nights.1 He had followed the episodic adventures of the monkey _Tôn Ngộ Không_ and the monk _Huyền Trang_ and the colorful team of demons with near religious attention.2

_”Are you going to come to bed?” Frankenstein had asked one night._

_”After this one,” Ragar had answered as he slid another VHS tape into the television set._

“Let’s go in,” Frankenstein says, and it draws Ragar back to the present.

They ascend the stairs. At the entrance, they stoop down to slip off their shoes, leaving them clustered closely next to those of others as they proceed to step onto the brick colored tile. Center stage, Buddha sits grandly, cast in his own golden glow. His eyes are trained serenely ahead, appearing all seeing and all knowing. Incense smoke floats before him.

An aged man passes them to obtain a pair of dark, crescent shaped stones in a cup from atop a worn wooden cabinet. He kneels before Buddha, his bones seeming to creak from it, and then bows down, the cup held to his forehead. As he begins to shake it, the stones clack rhythmically against each other. His lips move with invisible words. Then, he spills the pair of stones onto the floor, and they scrape against the tile. Whatever prophetic shapes they make mean something to the man, but Ragar cannot decipher it. The man slowly returns the cup and stones to their original place and drifts quietly away.

Ragar steps forward, feeling both small and daring as he gazes up at the statue’s face. The gritty, herbal scent of the incense travels down his throat and fills his lungs. From the heavy table placed between him and the Buddha, he withdraws two long sticks of incense from their plastic packaging before carefully holding the end up to a red candle to the side. Ragar watches the soft orange glow as he steps back.

Frankenstein makes a curious face at him.

Ragar bows his head, his eyes slipping closed as he holds the incense upwards towards Buddha. They stand in silence for a long moment.

Finally, Ragar opens his eyes and straightens. He steps forward to firmly plant his incense into the sand of one of the three metal pots.

Frankenstein watches him with gentle amusement. “What did you pray for?”

“A miracle.”

His friend quietly scoffs. “There's no such thing.”

Ragar pulls at his mask. “But one stands before me right now, Frankenstein.” His gaze is clear and piercing.

Frankenstein blinks. His mouth falls open, but words do not immediately come to him. The hand he raises to his chin and the fingers covering his mouth are a futile attempt to hide a smile that reaches his eyes. He turns away, as if he has somewhere more important to be. “Don’t speak such nonsense...” Frankenstein finally says.

Ragar trails after him, his long tunic fluttering.

* * *

Adjacent to the temple is a small flower market, set up almost over night. Tulips, orchids, and lilies are all among the colorful selection, but it is the bright yellow chrysanthemums that catch Ragar's eyes, their blooms bright and bursting, nearly as proud as the sun itself. The numerous petals form soft, round bundles around each flower. He tentatively reaches out to brush against one with the back of his fingers.

Frankenstein nods approvingly at his choice and selects the prettiest ones of the bunch. Cool water drips from the stems and onto the tips of their shoes when he lifts the flowers from the plastic basin.

* * *

Ragar clutches the newspaper wrapped bundle of flowers close as they ride through the city again on the motorbike. The paper crinkles against his arms and obscures his vision on one side. Distantly, he hears the quiet rumble of thunder.

Ragar leans forward to Frankenstein's ear. "Do you sense it as well?"

"I do."

"Shall we follow?"

"Of course."

Frankenstein makes a quick illegal turn and they swerve onto the sidewalk.

A man stumbles away. _"Đụ má mày,"_ he curses at them.3

Frankenstein parks their Vespa and hops off. "It's best if we go on foot."

Ragar nods and does so as well, placing his armful of flowers carefully down on the seat.

They slip into the darkness of a narrow alleyway, and weave silently through the sinuous streets.

Turning the corner, Ragar spots the tail end of a dark maroon coat of a man entering a humble restaurant, one of the many that line the streets.

"I'll take a look," Frankenstein decides.

Ragar nods, and his friend quickly disappears after the suspect. He turns around. It is silent. He leaps away.

His footsteps are light even as he leaps across the rooftops. His heart begins to race faster with the speed of his legs. He feels the beginning of rain on his skin and in his breath, sparse water droplets dotting his face.

A slim shadow darts in his vision. It is fast, but he bounds like there is fire at his heels and closes their distance. The cold tile of someone's roof cracks with the force of his hand pressing down on someone's shoulder.

The woman stares at him with wide, storm colored eyes for not even a brief moment before twisting free, leaping back as her blue, electrified nails cut through the humid air. The attack phases right through his form.

Ragar is behind her before she even realizes it.

Her long, blue hair whips as she turns to face him.

Ragar's arms are crossed, and his posture is demure. The bright veins crawling up his opponent's arms are telling. "Union?" he guesses.

The woman remains silent.

"And the man who entered the restaurant, he is with you?"

She turns to flee again, but Ragar quickly traps her foot under his own, keeping her grounded.

"Please, I suggest you answer my questions."

"And if I don't?"

"You will not leave until you do."

"Do not be so sure of yourself."

Ragar feels the surge of power against his shielding hands. The woman's hands are clawed and luminescing like live wires. Long spikes extend from her forearms.

He only narrowly dodges as she swipes at him. And then again. Smoothly Ragar redirects her arm as he steps to the side but tips as she sweeps a kick under his legs. Quickly reorienting himself, he again grounds her, cracking yet another tile.

Her attacks are short and swift; she wastes no time again going on the offensive. And yet, she lands not a single hit.

He catches her arm in a quietly violent grip. "Is this all you have to show me?" Ragar comments. He lets go before she can impale him with a sharp hand.

"Ay! What the hell are you doing!?" There is the sound of clumsy, hurried steps up a tightly winding metal staircase.

Ragar freezes. When he looks around again, the woman is gone. What he spots instead is a stooped elderly lady glaring at him with the anger of all the knives she can possibly store in her kitchen. Even the wrinkles on her face scowl at him "How did you get up here?" She waves a well worn butcher knife at him. "You better not be a burgler!"

Ragar stares at her like a deer in headlights. Robotically, he bows and hastily adds, _"Con xin lỗi bà" My apologies, Ma'am._ 4

"Get off my roof."

* * *

  
By the time he returns to the corner of the rendezvous, there is a downpour. The windows of the restaurant have been shattered. Police motorbikes are parked in front of the establishment. Ragar tentatively approaches, attempting to feign the normalcy of simply a curious passerby as his eyes scan for Frankenstein only to find strangers and irritated cops in drenched dull green uniforms.

"Over here."

Ragar turns, and there is Frankenstein on the Vespa that purrs up to the side of the road. He wears a different jacket, all black instead of striped, and Ragar suspects that the helmet obscuring his friend's identity is stolen. The yellow flowers are on his lap.

Ragar gracefully mounts the bike and wraps his hands around his waist from behind.

They drive off.

"What did you find?" Ragar asks.

"Our miracle," Frankenstein says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Quán Thế Âm is also known as the Buddhist bodhisattva Guanyin, associated with compassion and can take on both feminine and masculine forms.
> 
> 2This is a reference to Jouney to the West. There're many adaptations of this 16th century Ming Dynasty story, but the one Ragar watches is the 1986 live action adaptation.
> 
> 3"Đụ má mày" is very rude. Can be equivalent to "I'll fuck your mother," but is a common thing to curse.
> 
> 4Ragar refers to himself as "con," which is like "your child" or "the child." He refers to the lady as "bà" which equates to grandmother. What he says can be more literally translated as, "Your child apologizes to Grandmother."
> 
> Kinship terms used as pronouns is important in Vietnamese. For a list of kinship terms and info on Vietnamese pronouns, take a look at the [Wikipedia](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vietnamese_pronouns) :).


	3. Chapter 3

They find themselves walking into one of the few open eateries to escape the rain, their clothes partially soaked and the ends of their hair dripping water onto the grimy tiled floor spotted and streaked with the damp footprints of other customers.

“His name is—was Jake.” Ice clinks against his slim, tall glass of _cà phê sữa đá;_ the robust coffee bears the pleasant sweetness of condensed milk and an underlying bite of booze. Frankenstein leans back into the plastic chair, crossing his ankle over his knee as he smiles behind the curve of the glass.

Ragar regards his friend dubiously. “You started a fight?”

“ _I_ didn’t start anything. You wound me, Ragar.”

Sitting across from him, Ragar picks up his own cup of coffee, also generously spiked. He eyes Frankenstein with no amount of confidence, beckoning him to continue.

“He was meeting a woman who goes by the name _Dung Hà._ Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

“She is in the South now?”

Frankenstein takes a sip and nods. “ _Dung Hà_ and _Năm Cam,_ the two great powers of this country’s underworld are both in Saigon, and one of them happens to be meeting with a Union agent.”1 He sighs, casually smiling. “I don’t know what the intentions of the gang bosses are, but my ‘friend’ Jake has been _very_ informative.” Frankenstein says the words with no modicum of fellow feeling and with all the mirth and disdain Ragar expects of someone practiced in dealing with tiresome Union goons in particular; Ragar shares similar feelings at times. “A cargo ship will be leaving Saigon tomorrow. Supposedly, gang affiliates will be smuggling something of great interest on it.”

Condensation slides down the side of Ragar’s glass and onto his fingers. “Where will it be headed?”

“South Korea.”

Outside, the rain lightens.

* * *

Ragar's fingers press against the brick wall. They are hidden in the dark, and he sighs softly as his gaze drifts downward. He feels Frankenstein's warmth against his back as those hands slip easily under his _áo dài_ through the slits on the side. Ragar pushes against the wall, pressing himself closer to Frankenstein, tilting his neck endearingly to the side for lips and teeth both soft and aggressive.

Frankenstein caresses his thighs, his waist, the plane of his stomach. Nails digging into his hip, he slots a leg between Ragar's to grind against him. His other hand has already tipped Ragar's waistband down to grasp at his shamelessly eager cock.

Ragar closes his eyes indulgently.

Frankenstein's fingers slip inside of him as well, knowing just how to make him swoon.

"My tunic will get dirty..." Ragar whispers.

"Please, don't pretend to preserve your propriety _now._ " Frankenstein reaches sharply into him, insistent against where it feels best, making Ragar bend his legs and arch pleasingly into him. "You hardly care where and how we do this as long as you get to cum on my hand or on my cock."

Ragar swallows. He tilts his head back and breathes roughly. His brow creases at the agonizing slowless of Frankenstein's motions. Uncharacteristically impatient, Ragar slips a hand under his tunic, laying it atop Frankenstein's, urging him to stroke him with more fervor and discarding the rest of his thin veneer of noble reservation. "Frankenstein," he chides, voice abrupt and restless.

He feels a warm puff of air as Frankenstein huffs against his neck. His pace remains unpersuaded. He thrusts deeply into Ragar's ass and pulls out completely to linger with cruel laguidness at his entrance, circling and teasing before he deems it appropriate to slide into Ragar again.

It is not long before Ragar is wet in his hand and rutting against him. He presses his lips tightly together as though in deep concentration. A groan quietly dies in his throat as he spreads his legs further apart. The haze of pleasure winds through his body but is just shy of allowing him release. "Please," he appeals again.

Frankenstein's tone is slightly breathless despite efforts in maintaining his air of arrogance. "Would you like to cum?"

Ragar nods. He closes his eyes tightly.

"Don't be rude. Answer."

 _"Dạ bác,“ yes, Sir,_ Ragar utters.2

Frankenstein makes an amused sound.

Ragar shudders and raises himself onto his toes as Frankenstein's hands work him aggressively, carrying him up and up to the heights of his pleasure, touching him in ways that make his knees lovingly weak. He feels himself tighten and shift, aching and bracing himself for the approaching climax that he wonders will make him buckle under.

But Frankenstein lets him go, abandoning him before completion.

Ragar gasps. He groans quietly and admonishingly. A moment of silence passes as he attempts to collect himself. "You said..."

Frankenstein's fingers rest shallowly in him as he begins stroking again, as slowly and infuriatingly as before. "I never said anything."

Ragar sighs and rests his forehead against an arm braced on the wall. They start again.

And, once again, Frankenstein gradually drags him to the plateau. Ragar's breath comes to him hurriedly, laced with frustrated anticipation. For a moment, he almost believes Frankenstein will grant him kindness—a kindness that Ragar feels he needs more than anything at the moment—as he jerks in his friend's maddening hands and squeezes his eyes shut. His mask that covers his wanton, open mouth, has dampened at this point.

"Oh—"

"Nn—"

"Well, would you look at that." Frankenstein withdraws suddenly and completely. "It's starting to rain again. We should head back before we're caught in a storm."

 _"Frankenstein."_ Ragar becomes still. He buries his eyes into his sleeve as he breathes, attempting to gather himself. The throb of his tensed and unsatisfied body makes him shiver. The wet of his cock that smears his thighs is cold. After a few more moments, he coursely exhales.

"You look miserable," Frankenstein teases, and Ragar does not need to look at him to know he is smirking at the sight of his pathetic want.

Ragar only then notices the rain on his skin when he lifts his head and turns around to give Frankenstein an astringent glare.

And Frankenstein only smiles at him with that bright, provoking, charismatic smile as he mounts their nearby bike, kicking up the stand with his heel. He nods at him. "At least your tunic hasn't gotten dirty."

Ragar blinks. He wipes his face of any readable expression and curtly takes his seat behind Frankenstein on the bike after gathering the yellow flowers in his arms.

The Vespa lights up and rumbles to life. Rain catches like white sparks within the spread of the headlight.

"I am fucking you when we get home," Ragar says.

"Be my guest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1These were real gang bosses in Vietnam at the time. Dung Hà had come from the North (Haiphong) to the South and clashed with Năm Cam in Saigon, resulting in her assassination in 2000 and then his arrest and execution by firing squad in 2004.
> 
> 2 "Bác" as a kinship term is used for uncles older than your father, but in this case, it is equivalent to "Sir." Even though Ragar is older than Franken, he refers to him as "bác," due to kinship inheritance. He would call Rai "bác," and since Frankenstein is Rai's Bonded, that title now extends to Frankenstein as well. For regular people, kinship terms are generally inherited within the bloodline from generation to generation.
> 
> Furthermore, the term "dạ" is the polite form of "yes," normally used when speaking to someone of higher authority, whether that be of actual authority or seniority.


End file.
